After Hours

“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Ramsey.” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN Copyright

“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Confidence gets results, Dr. Barnes.”

“Up until now, confidence might have gotten you results,” she said sweetly.

“Are you suggesting I should change tactics?”

“I’m suggesting you abandon the project.”

“I don’t think so. You’re an interesting challenge.”

Marcia’s nostrils flared. “Now you’re being insulting.”

Quentin stepped closer and said softly, “You liked it when I touched you.”

Gritting her teeth, Marcia thought about icebergs and glaciers and Scotch on the rocks—anything to prevent herself from blushing. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“You really get under my skin, Marcia Barnes.”

“That’s mutual.” She had never been kissed like that in her life. Brief, beautiful and bewildering.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the third of three scintillating books by Sandra Field. When Sandra first came up with the idea for her book Beyond Reach (#1806) she fell in love with her characters so much that she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them behind. So she wrote another book. Then another.... And Significant Others was born. Sandra writes:

“This series of three books crept up on me unawares. After Troy and Lucy met in the West Indies, I found myself curious to discover how marriage would change them, hence Second Honeymoon (#1830), again set on an island, this time off the coast of Nova Scotia. Lucy’s laid-back friend, Quentin, and her uptight sister, Marcia, played minor roles in Second Honeymoon. Once Quentin had appeared on the scene, I knew I wouldn’t rest until I’d brought him face-to-face with Marcia....”

After Hours is Marcia and Quentin’s story.

Enjoy!

The Editor

After Hours

Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

SHE was losing it. Going bonkers.

Marcia Barnes stood in the living room of her condo, gazing out the window at the Rideau Canal; along the bicycle path that followed the curves of the canal a couple of intrepid cyclers zipped along, undeterred by the rain. It was a peaceful scene. Trees that had just burst into leaf, tulips in geometric beds, tidy arrays of well-kept houses. Everything neat and in perfect order.

Not like her.

She pulled a hideous face in the plate glass window. However, if this had been an attempt to quell the anxiety that had been with her ever since the meeting that afternoon at the medical research institute where she worked as an immunologist, it failed miserably. At the meeting the director, in a voice as smooth as cream, had spoken of budgetary restraints that might lead to cutbacks in staff. Cutbacks that could go as high as fifty percent. Although Marcia had worked there for seven years, she by no means had seniority.

Her work was her life. Had been as long as she could remember. She’d be lost without it.

She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Thank goodness she’d had the sense to refuse Lucy and Troy’s invitation to dinner. Bad enough that she’d agreed to go to the gallery where their friend Quentin what’s-his-name’s show was opening.

Quentin. The name conjured up Harris tweed jackets and a pipe. An uppercrust British accent. Landscapes modeled after Constable’s, with puffy white clouds and placid brown cows.

The last thing she felt right now was placid—she who everyone thought was so into control. Rather, she felt as though her life, so carefully constructed and so rigidly maintained, was falling into pieces around her.

She went into the kitchen and located her invitation to the gallery—the most exclusive gallery in town. Not that she cared. She didn’t want to get dressed up and go out again. She didn’t want to meet Quentin Ramsey, whose show, called Multiple Personalities, was being touted in such glowing terms. Nor did she want to see her sister Lucy and her brother-in-law Troy, who had arrived in Ottawa yesterday just to be at the opening.

What she wanted to do was fill her bathtub to the rim with steaming hot water and big globs of bubble bath, turn on the most soothing music she possessed and forget all about the outside world. After that she’d go to bed. How else to end a day from hell?

She sighed. Lucy was already puzzled by her refusal to have dinner with them. Although Lucy and Troy lived in Vancouver, they were spending the next two months in Ottawa because Troy was teaching pediatric residencies in two of the city hospitals. They’d brought the baby with them. If Marcia didn’t turn up at the art gallery, Lucy would think something was wrong.

Nothing’s wrong, Marcia thought wildly, rubbing at her forehead. There’s a good chance I’m going to lose my job, the woman I’ve always been has deserted me and I don’t have a clue who else to be, and I don’t want to see my own sister. I don’t even want to be around her. What kind of person does that make me?

Tall, beautiful Lucy, with her mop of untidy curls and her full figure and her rich, uninhibited laughter was the very antithesis of her elder sister Marcia. Or her younger sister Catherine. Or their mother Evelyn, come to that.

Do I envy her? Is that what it is?

Was envy one of the seven deadly sins? If it wasn’t, it should be.

The old-fashioned grandfather clock, which had indeed belonged to Marcia’s grandfather, a renowned neurosurgeon, chimed the half hour. I’m going to be late... Oh, well, that means I’ll miss the speeches at the beginning and I’ll get to meet Lucy and Troy in the middle of a whole lot of people. No chance for intimacy. Sounds good.

Marcia went into the bedroom, which faced west and was filled with the fading light of evening. Raindrops were beating against the windowpane in a miniature tattoo. Firmly closing her mind to the prospect of a hot bath, Marcia rummaged through her closet. Lucy always had been too intuitive for comfort. So the persona of the Marcia she had always been was going to be firmly in place. Cool, competent Marcia, in control of her own life. Unemotional, detached Marcia, who never made demands.

All her movements neat and efficient, she stripped off her work clothes, had a quick shower and dressed in a navy blue linen suit whose tailored elegance was worth every penny she had paid for it. Silky navy hose, Italian leather pumps and discreet gold jewelry came next. Expertly she applied her make-up. Then she brushed her sleek dark hair, in its expensive cut that curved just below her ears, and checked her appearance in the full-length mirror in her bedroom.

She didn’t look thirty-three.

Not that it really mattered how old she looked.

Hastily she jammed her big horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. She could have worn her contacts. But her glasses gave her something to hide behind—and to meet Lucy she needed all the help she could get. Grabbing her shiny forest-green raincoat and still-damp umbrella from the hall closet, she left her condo and took the elevator to the basement.

She’d go straight to the gallery, meet the famous Quentin Ramsey, make appreciative noises about every one of his multiple personalities and invite Lucy and Troy to dinner on Sunday along with the rest of the family. And then she’d come home, duty done.

Multiple Personalities, she thought crossly, backing out of her parking lot. What kind of a name was that for a bunch of paintings? Too clever by half. Too cutesy. Altogether too self-conscious. He might be Lucy and Troy’s friend, but that didn’t mean that she, Marcia, had to like him.

Scowling, she pressed the remote control to open the garage door, and drove out into the rain swept evening.

Quentin, too, had checked his appearance in the mirror before he’d left for the art gallery. The amount of money he’d had to spend to get a decent suit that he planned to wear no more than half a dozen times a year had astounded him. He looked like an ad in a glossy men’s magazine, he thought irritably, hitching. at the knot in his silk tie: “The Successful Artist of the 90s. Man-abouttown Quentin Ramsey attending the opening of his highly successful show Multiple Personalities.”

What in hell had possessed him to come up with that title?

He ran a comb through his thick black curls, which instantly went right back to their usual state of disarray. He grinned at himself, feeling somewhat more cheerful. At least his hair refused to do the correct thing. And he’d always hated openings. Hated them with a passion.

He painted to communicate—no doubt about that. He didn’t want his works stashed away in a studio with their faces to a wall. But he couldn’t stand to hear people discussing them, stereotyping them, analyzing all their vitality out of existence with words like “deconstructionism” and “post modern abstractionism”. At least the critics had had to come up with some new labels for this show, he thought, grinning again. Time he shook them up a bit.

Someone would be bound to tell him that his new style was a cop-out in the interests of commercialism. And someone else would be sure to praise his raw honesty. For some reason his kind of honesty was nearly always called raw.

Speaking of which, he’d forgotten to eat anything.

Quentin went to the minibar and pilfered its entire stock of peanuts and pretzels. Chewing absently, he realized how much he was looking forward to seeing Lucy and Troy. He’d turned down their invitation to dinner because he had to be at the gallery early. But, if he had his way, he’d end up the evening at the apartment they’d rented and he’d take off his tie and his shiny leather shoes that were already pinching his feet, and toss back a beer or two. And he’d be sure to admire the new baby. He knew rather more than most people what that baby meant to them.

And as soon as he could he’d get out of Ottawa. Too tidy a city for him. Too prettified. He wanted pine trees and running water and maybe a mountain or two.

Not a hotel room—no matter how luxurious.

He opened the second bag of pretzels. What he really needed to do was take a break from painting and build another house. The bite of saw into lumber, the sweet smell of wood chips, the satisfaction of seeing a roof line cut into the sky—they all anchored him to a reality very different from that of paint on canvas. It was a reality he was beginning to crave.

There was nothing new about this. In his travels around the world Quentin had always alternated periods of intense artistic activity with the more mundane and comforting reality of house construction. What was new was that the house he wanted to build this time was a house for himself. His own walls. His own roof.

He glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation of dismay. Grabbing his raincoat, he ran for the elevator, and in the lobby of the hotel hailed a cab. But as he was driven through the gleaming wet streets, still chewing on the pretzels, his thoughts traveled with him. He wanted to settle down. He’d been a nomad ever since he’d left his parents’ yard at the age of three to follow the milk truck down the road, but now he wanted to have a place that he could call home.

It had been a long time since that little boy had stumbled along the dirt ruts, hollering at the milkman to wait for him. He was thirty-six now. And while he wanted a home, there was more to it than that. He wanted a woman to share that home. To share his home. His bed. His life. But she had to be the right woman.

He gazed vaguely at the beds of tulips that edged the road, neat blocks of solid color that moved him not at all. He’d been considerably older than three—eleven, perhaps—when he’d come to the conclusion that he’d know the woman he was meant to marry from the first moment he saw her. He knew perfectly well where that conviction had come from. His parents had had—he now realized, as an adult—the kind of marriage that happens only rarely. A marriage alive with love, laughter and passion, with fierce conflicts and an honesty that could indeed have been called raw.

He hadn’t been able to verbalize this at age eleven, but he had intuited that there was something very special between the man and woman who were his parents. One of the often-told stories of his childhood had been how they had fallen in love at first sight, recognizing each other instantly as the partner each had been waiting for.

At the age of twenty-five, impatient, he’d ignored that certainty and married Helen. And within six weeks had known that he’d done the wrong thing. He’d hung in to the very best of his ability, and when she’d left him for a bank president twice her age had heaved a sigh of relief and vowed never to repeat that particular mistake.

Quentin was not a vain man, and it never ceased to surprise him that women flocked to him like blue jays to a feeder on a cold winter’s day. Tall women, short women, beautiful women, sexy women. But not one of them so far had touched his soul.

What if he never found this mythical woman? Was he a fool to believe in the romantic dream of an eleven-year-old?

Maybe if he built the house first she’d somehow follow, as naturally as sunrise was bound to follow sunset.

Or maybe he was a fool even to think of settling down. He’d always rather prided himself on being a free spirit, going where he pleased when he pleased and staying as long as he pleased. If he got married, he wouldn’t be able to do that.

The right woman... did she even exist?

He tried to wrench his mind away from thoughts that were, he’d sometimes concluded, both non-productive and infantile. The taxi swished through a puddle and drew up outside the gallery. Pots of scarlet tulips decorated the sidewalk, standing stiff and tall in the rain, like valiant soldiers on watch. I’m lonely, Quentin thought with a flash of insight. Despite my success, despite the incredible freedom of the way I live, I’m lonely.

“Ten seventy-five, sir,” said the cabbie.

With a jerk Quentin came back to the present. He fumbled for the fare, added a tip, and ran for the gallery door. He wasn’t all that free. Because he’d rather be walking the wet streets tonight than going to his own opening.

The owner of the gallery was a woman in her fifties, wife of a senior government official and dauntingly efficient; Quentin always wanted to call her Mrs. Harrington-Smythe rather than Emily—a name that did not suit her in the slightest. As he hung up his raincoat she gave his suit a quick appraisal and nodded her approval.

Wishing he’d left the price tag pinned to the cuff, Quentin allowed himself to be whisked on a tour of the gallery. Her placement of the paintings was all he could have asked; he only wished that they didn’t make him feel as though he was about to undress in public. Emily gave him a copy of the catalog and ran through a list of the most prominent ministers, several deputy ministers and a sprinkling of diplomats.

Not bad for a kid from a little village in New Brunswick, thought Quentin, and did his best to memorize the names. Then the doorbell rang and he steeled himself to get through the next hours without abandoning the good manners his mother had worked very hard to instill in him.

Three-quarters of an hour later the place was humming. Eleven paintings had sold, the bartenders had been run off their feet and Quentin had been extremely civil to the first of the cabinet ministers—who didn’t approve of anything painted after 1900 and wasn’t backward in expressing his views. Then, from behind him, Quentin heard a woman call his name. He turned, gathered Lucy into his arms and hugged her hard. “Wonderful to see you!”

She said softly, “I can’t believe you were being so polite—is this the Quentin I know?”

“I’m on my best behavior. You look gorgeous, Lucy—that’s quite a dress.”

Its purple folds made her mahogany curls glisten, and its décolletage verged on the indiscreet. “I thought you’d like it,” she said complacently. “Troy picked it out for me.”

Troy clapped Quentin on the shoulder. “Good to see you. When this affair is over, we want you to come back to the apartment so we can catch up on all the news.”

“Done,” said Quentin. “As long as you’ve got some beer.”

“Bought a twelve-pack this afternoon.”

Troy was two or three inches taller than Quentin’s five-feet eleven, blond where Quentin was dark, and a medical doctor rather than an artist; but from the time they had met on Shag Island off the coast of Nova Scotia the two men had liked one another. And when Quentin pictured the home he was going to build for himself it was always situated somewhere on the west coast within reach of Vancouver.

Emily was fast approaching, with a man in tow who looked like cabinet minister number two. Quentin raised his brow at Lucy. “Duty calls. Talk to you later.”

“We’ll give you our address before we leave.’ Tucking her arm into Troy’s, she headed for the works in acrylic that were such a break from the abstracts he had been doing on the island.

The second cabinet minister asked several penetrating questions and listened with genuine interest to Quentin’s replies. Then Quentin suffered through a very rich widow with fake eyelashes who simply didn’t understand the first thing about art, and an importer of foreign cars who understood only too well and insisted on inflicting his theories on the artist. Quentin finally got rid of him and headed for the bar. The pretzels had made him thirsty.

He had just taken a gulp of what was a quite decent Cabernet, hoping it would inspire him to plunge back into the mêlée, when the door was pushed open once again. Idly he watched as a woman walked into the foyer.

She closed her umbrella, shook water from it and straightened, the light falling on her face and the smooth swing of her hair. Dark hair that shone like polished wood.

Oh, Lord, thought Quentin. It’s happened. At a gallery opening, of all places. That’s her. The woman I’ve been waiting for.

He plunked his glass on the counter and pushed past several people who all wanted to speak to him, deaf to their remarks. The woman was hanging her dark green raincoat on the rack by the door, all her movements economical and precise. She’s not my type, he thought blankly. Look at that suit. And those godawful glasses. What in heaven’s name’s going on here?

He was still ten feet away from her. She turned, taking the glasses from her nose and rubbing the rain from them with a tissue from her pocket, her face composed as she surveyed the crowded room. She might not be his type, but she was utterly, beguilingly beautiful.

His heart was banging in his chest like the ring of a hammer on boards. Feeling as clumsy as an adolescent, Quentin closed the distance between them and croaked, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

She was no more than five feet five and delicately made, so that he felt large and clumsy. Her irises were the deep velvety purple of pansies and her lashes dark and thick; her bone structure was exquisite and her male-up flawless. Last of all, he saw how very soft and kissable was her mouth, and he felt his heart give another uncomfortable thud in his chest. She said in faint puzzlement, “Are you the gallery owner? I thought—”

“I’m the artist.”

Her lashes flickered over unmistakable hostility. “Quentin Ramsey?”

He nodded. “And you?”

“Surely you don’t meet everyone at the door?”

“You’re the first.”

“And to what,” Marcia said silkily, “do I owe that honor?”

“Stop talking like a nineteenth-century novel. It doesn’t suit you.”

So much for the aristocratic British accent, thought Marcia. Not to mention the British good manners. “How can you possibly have any idea what suits me—I could be a professor of Victorian literature for all you know. Are you always so rude to potential customers?”

But Quentin was frowning, struggling to anchor a memory. “I’ve seen you somewhere. I’m sure I have.”

“That’s one of the oldest lines in the book.”

“You cheapen both of us by that kind of remark.”

“Oh, pardon me,” she said. “In my experience, men—”

“I have seen you before.”

“You’re quite wrong—I’ve never met you.” Because I would have remembered you, thought Marcia, trying to calm down. For the blue of your eyes, if nothing else. The deepest blue I’ve ever seen. Deep enough to lose myself.

“What’s your name?”

She took a deep breath. Her imaginary portrait of Quentin Ramsey couldn’t have been more inaccurate. This was definitely no tweed-jacketed Englishman who painted pretty landscapes under the influence of a great master. This man was a rugged individualist if ever she’d met one. Rugged, indeed; he looked as though he’d be more at home with a chainsaw than a paintbrush. She said coolly, “Dr. Marcia Barnes.”

“What? You’re Lucy’s sister?”

He looked as shocked as though she’d just thrown a glass of wine in his face. She said, wondering why she should feel so angry, “We’re very different, Lucy and I.”

“No kidding. But that’s why I thought I’d met you—Lucy has a photo of you in her living room.” Fighting down a tumble of emotions that had an acute disappointment chief among them, Quentin said, ‘You’re the immunologist.’

“Yes.”

Glaring at her, he demanded, “Why haven’t you bothered visiting them since the baby was born?”

“I did! Last November.”

“Sure—you managed to stay for two whole hours on your way to a medical conference. I said visit.”

“It’s really none of your—”

“When a conference is more important to you than your own family, you’re in a bad way. Lucy’s told me about you. ‘Workaholic’ is one way to describe you.”

With studied charm Emily Harrington-Smythe said, “Quentin, may I borrow you for a few minutes? Mr. Brace has. a couple of questions for you before he purchases the largest of the acrylics” She directed a polite smile at Marcia. “If you’ll excuse us, please?”

“With pleasure,” Marcia said crisply.

Determined to have the last word, Quentin announced, “Your sister and brother-in-law are in the other room. If you can spare the time, that is.”

Seething, Marcia watched him cross the room and plunge into the crowd. His black hair was too long, curling at his nape, but at least those penetrating blue eyes were no longer pinning her to the wall. Just who did he think he was, daring to criticize her within moments of meeting her?

Deftly she secured a glass of wine at the bar. Lucy must have complained to him about that visit. It had been short, no question. But she’d just attended a conference on AIDS and had been on her way to another on immunodeficiency syndrome, and an afternoon had been all she could spare.

Even less anxious to meet her sister now, Marcia began to circle the room, turning her attention to the paintings. Within moments any thoughts of Lucy were banished from her mind. The works on this wall were all abstracts—some monochromatic, some boldly hued—and their emotional intensity tapped instantly into all the emptiness and confusion that she was beginning to realize she had been carrying around for quite a long time. The threat of losing her job had made them worse. But it hadn’t given birth to them.

Eventually she found herself in front of a work titled Composition Number 8, whose vibrant spirals of color pulled her into their very depths. Her throat closed with pain. She’d never experienced what the immediacy of those colors symbolized: the joy, the passion, the fervent commitment—moment by moment—to the business of being alive. Never. And now maybe it was too late. Panic-stricken, she thought, I can’t cry here. Not in a roomful of strangers.